Starved for a Look
by White Star 2
Summary: He was in New York in the seventies. She was a college student in California in 1980. Between them, they'd accumulated enough kinky sex to last them a lifetime. (CJ/Toby)


Title: Starved for a Look  
Author: White Star 2  
E-mail address: hila-p@barak-online.net  
Category: Romance  
Pairing: CJ/Toby  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: They AREN'T mine and will likely never be. Okay? But  
then, other parts *they* don't know about are mine...*evil laugh*  
  
Summary: He was in New York in the seventies. She was a college  
student in California in 1980. Between them, they'd accumulated  
enough kinky sex to last them a lifetime.  
  
Author's Notes: So my muse said, "Write a CJ/Toby story!" and I said,  
"No!" So my muse decided to take things into its own hands and write  
it for me. (This might be a good time to mention that my muse is  
sounding more and more like Toby every day. Quite a conflict of  
interests, don't you think. ;) )  
  
Anyway... thanks to all the advanced readers (Uh.... Chell C, Aris,  
Rob, and Ayelet) who managed to convince me that this is worthy of  
publishing.  
  
---  
  
CJ could pin down the exact moment when she started feeling old. She  
had been in New York City, talking to Cornelius Sykes, arguing about  
the politics of backing someone when he's screwed up. And she'd  
looked around, and she'd looked at him. And suddenly the world was  
populated by younger men. It hadn't used to be.  
  
She felt old.  
  
She'd gone back to D.C. to deal with Sam and the President and the  
State of the Union, and she never stopped feeling old. But he would  
hold her gazes, and look at her shyly when he thought she wasn't  
looking. Or perhaps he knew she was. She would walk by his office on  
purpose, on her way to see Sam or Josh, even if it was out of her  
way. He would stop typing or reading or throwing his rubber ball at  
the wall, and she would be flattered.  
  
It had been a game of looks for three years, since she came to work  
for the campaign. Glances shot at each other, gazes held. Most of the  
time, they weren't sexual. Some of the time, they didn't have any  
reason. It was her move to start teasing. It was her strong side,  
while looks were his. And she could tell he understood that, and did  
his best to take her every comment standing. It was amusing to see  
him struggle to recover, to find her next chance.  
  
It had been a game for too long, but he didn't seem to be growing  
tired of it, just taking it more seriously. She wasn't sure when  
exactly his gazes began to change. There was something in his eyes  
that wasn't there before, a sadness, almost. It took her a while to  
really put her finger on it. A longing.  
  
For three years, she'd had the feeling that this is how it would end.  
But it was different than she'd imagined it.  
  
He was in New York in the seventies. She was a college student in  
California in 1980. Between them, they'd accumulated enough kinky sex  
to last them a lifetime. When they first met, it was the last thing  
either of them thought of. Now it was taken for granted, so many  
years of being in and out of practice.  
  
Back when they first met, when she was still young and he still had  
most of his hair, someone who was more than a little drunk and likely  
a little stoned had told her that sex should be more than just the  
connection between bodies. If it's not a connection between souls,  
too, it's nothing. It was long ago, almost a third of her life, and  
she'd been holding men to that standard ever since.  
  
With him it wasn't like that. Sex wasn't sweet or romantic or the  
kind of amazing sex that would make her wake up in the morning and  
think she was in love. It was just the next level, part of that game  
between them. There was no connection there. For her, the connection  
was when they argued. At work, about the issues, or after it, for  
fun. It was everything, the core of the relationship. And suddenly,  
she was enjoying her job, the part of it that she spent arguing with  
him, a lot more.  
  
She was lying on her side in some awkward position that was going to  
make her shoulders stiff for the rest of the day. It would have been  
a good idea to move, but she didn't want to. She was in that state  
where sleep and reality mingled, where although she knew he was no  
longer in bed with her, she could pretend he was.  
  
Her cell phone was in the other room, beeping every few minutes,  
gasping to be recharged. That was how long she hadn't been home.  
Work, his place, work, his place. And her nails were growing long,  
and her hair was starting to feel dry, and she couldn't help thinking  
it was only a matter of time before they got caught. Her cell phone  
beeped again, three times, and died.  
  
It was small things, at first, easy to hide. A bruise on her arm, a  
scratch on his back. But even the small things, when they accumulate,  
become hard to hide, and she was wearing turtlenecks and pants more  
often than she was used to, and he wasn't making eye contact in  
public anymore.  
  
Now it seemed like they were all looking. It was paranoid, she knew,  
but it still felt that way to her. Her eyes darted around nervously  
at staff meetings, never once falling on him. She spent her exercise  
time thinking up excuses for anything anyone might ask. No one asked.  
  
She missed his longing eyes on her, his half-assed apologies for bad  
jokes, the well-hidden, panicked search for a retort when she made  
one of her teasing remarks. And so she disagreed with him more and  
they fought about everything, and it amazed her that no one seemed to  
notice.  
  
She wanted to go back. She missed his subtle, stolen glances. She  
missed being able to hold his gaze in public. More than, she knew,  
she would miss this. She wouldn't miss waking up alone in the  
morning, knowing he was already dressed and working in the other  
room. Before, she knew he felt something, and it flattered her. Now  
she wasn't so sure either one of them felt anything at all.  
  
Maybe if she stopped coming over, it would go back to being the way  
it was. It might actually be that simple, she mused. He might  
protest, but he'd know she's right. He'd nod silently and scratch his  
forehead like he always did when he was uncomfortable. She'd go back  
to work, and if things didn't get better, she could always come over  
at night. 


End file.
